


Holy

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Lucky 18 [3]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, Long Live Feedback Comment Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 11:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13950711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: The real reason Cynthia hates Vegas is that it's so afraid of silence.





	Holy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Star_Miya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Miya/gifts).



> (Written for a prompt from the 'sensory prompts' set on tumblr, thrown at me by Miya: Neon lights at 1.30am.)

The bright lights hurt her eyes. With how drunk she is, she’d probably grumble about moonlight, too. But in Vegas, the moon is always waning against the flashy signs. The one at the corner of the street is broken, going off and on, its irregular shimmer making it look sick. It makes Cynthia feel sick, too. And gives her a headache. She should’ve agreed to stay at that party the King was throwing for those few decent rangers who agreed to help Freeside. He’s not a bad guy... But it sickens her; clinging to the icons of the past without knowing fully what they mean.

She thinks of the few crumbling pages she left at home – her old home – Mojave is her new home, but it isn’t hers. It doesn’t belong to anyone; no, it’s the other way round. The desert claims all, in the end. It’s vast and demanding and not very merciful, and maybe not always just – but life usually isn’t unless you make it so. But the sand can be soft, and the cracked earth can sustain life, and the rocks can give shelter, and at night it’s silent and brilliant. It is the closest to Cynthia’s barely existent concept of sanctity. She isn’t sure she believes – she did, before she’s seen too much, before the wind rolled her across the desert and made her jaded – but that is what she imagines when she thinks of God. Open starry skies and open sands and the air smelling faintly of opuntia and burning wood. She remembers something vaguely from Grandfather’s bedtime stories: a pillar of fire, a pillar of smoke. The pillar of smoke reaching up from the ground to the pillar of fire in the sky. And somewhere in between, silence. And that silence is holy.

She’s heard some preachers – more often mad than not, but who isn’t, in this world? then again, some are crazier than most – she’s heard them call New Vegas the city of sin. And she never bothered. She doesn’t care for the casinos and alcohol – well, fine, that might be the only good side of the Strip – doesn’t care for the scarcely clad dancers and for what happens behind the closed doors of the brothels. Unless she’s hired to deal with some fuckers who think a fistful of caps gives them any special rights, or unless someone tries to steal a child along with cattle. But that’s just the harsh reality – just trash she gets out of the way. Nothing spiritual in it. She despises the city for it – and for cheating at cards and for knives in a dark alley and for all those things, and for the thieves who think they can steal from honest people just because they own a shop – but she can simply leave it behind. Go out into the desert – she vaguely recalls Grandfather speaking of something like that, too – and cleanse her mind with sand and forget it all.

No, it’s about something else. Vegas is never silent. There is music and laughter and singing and bawdy jokes and the clank of caps and the shuffling of cards and the groans of a guitar that’s out of tune and the murmur of flowing booze and the clinking of glasses. People in Vegas are never silent because they’re _afraid_ of it. Because they’re scared shitless of what they can find in their minds if they _listen_.

Cynthia doesn’t condemn them for not wanting to do that. She doesn’t always wish to do so, either. But at least she listens to the silence enough to know what she is lying to herself about.

They don’t. Not usually. That’s why whenever she enters the city it feels like stepping into a bog. That’s why whenever she leaves she feels the mud clinging to her, and runs away into the open desert as fast as she can. There’s a difference between telling your thoughts – conscience – ‘not today’ and ignoring them altogether. It’s not that Vegas doesn’t see; but it either doesn’t care or refuses to acknowledge they exist.

She’s too tired to consider what it might mean that Yuki can navigate the murky waters of New Vegas so easily, that she feels at home there. She doesn’t want to know. Maybe because the annoying little brat is her only friend who’s still alive.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
> This author replies to comments.



End file.
